Every Breath Page 17

  I want you to know that while imagining a life without you is unbearable, I understand your reasons. I saw your radiant expression when you spoke of having children, and I will never forget it. I know how agonizing this choice has been for you. It’s been devastating for me, but I can’t find it in my heart to blame you. After all, I have a son, and I can’t imagine life without him.

  After you leave, I suspect I’ll walk the beach as I have every day since I arrived, but nothing will be the same. For with every step I take, I’ll find myself thinking about you. I will feel you beside me, and within me. You have already become part of me, after all, and I know with certainty that this will never change.

  I never expected to feel this way. How could I? For most of my life, and with the exception of my son, I’ve always felt as though I were meant to be alone. I’m not implying that I’ve lived the life of a hermit, because I haven’t, and you already know that my job requires a certain level of social agreeableness. But I was never a person who felt incomplete without someone lying beside me in bed; I never felt as though I was only half of something better. Until you came along. And when you did, I understood that I’d been fooling myself, and that I’d really been missing you, all these long years.

  I don’t know what that means for my future. I do know that I’m not going to be the same person I used to be, because that’s no longer possible. I’m not naive enough to believe that memories will suffice, and in quiet moments, I may reach for drawing paper and try to capture whatever remains. I hope you will not deny me that.

  I wish that things could have been different for us, but fate seems to have had other plans. Still, you need to know this: The love I feel for you is real, and all the sadness that now comes with it is a price I would pay a thousand times over. For knowing you, and loving you, even for a short while, has given my life a different kind of meaning, and I know it always will.

  I’m not asking the same of you. I know what’s coming next for you, the new life that you’ll be living, and there’s no room for a third person there. I accept that. The Chinese philosopher Lao-tzu once said that being loved deeply by someone gives you strength, and loving someone deeply gives you courage. I understand now what he meant. Because you came into my life, I can face the oncoming years with the kind of courage that I never knew I had. Loving you has made me more than I was.

  You know where I am and where I’ll be if you ever want to contact me. It might take time. I’ve already mentioned that the world moves more slowly in the bush. And some items never reach their destination. But I firmly believe that you and I shared something special enough that if you reach out to me, the universe will somehow let me know. It’s because of you, after all, that I now believe in miracles. With us, I want to believe that anything will always be possible.

  Loving you,

  Tru

  Hope read the letter a second time, then once more, before finally returning it to the envelope. She pictured Tru writing the letter as he’d sat in her kitchen, and though she wanted to read it again, she doubted she would be able to make it to her parents’ if she did.

  She stowed the drawings and the letter in the glove compartment but didn’t start the car right away. Instead, she leaned back against the headrest, trying to calm her raging emotions. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she forced herself to get on the road.

  Her legs were unsteady as she walked to the door of her parents’ home. She forced a smile as she stepped through inside, watching as her dad struggled to rise from his recliner to greet her. The aroma from the kitchen filled the house, but Hope couldn’t muster an appetite.

  At the table, she shared a few stories from the wedding. Asked about the rest of the week, she made no mention of Tru. Nor did she tell her parents that Josh had proposed.

  After dessert, she retreated to the front porch, claiming a need for fresh air.

  By then, the sky was full of stars, and when she heard the screen door creak open, she saw her dad framed in the lights from the living room. He smiled and touched her shoulder as he shuffled carefully to the seat next to hers. He carried a cup of decaffeinated coffee with him, and after he settled in, he took a sip.

  “Your mom still makes the best beef stew I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It was very good tonight,” Hope agreed.

  “Are you feeling okay? You seemed a little quiet at dinner.”

  She tucked a leg up beneath her. “Yeah. I guess I’m still recovering from the weekend.”

  He placed the cup on the table between them. In the corner of the porch, a moth was dancing around the light, and crickets had begun their evening call.

  “I heard that Josh showed up at the wedding.” When she turned toward him, he shrugged. “Your mom told me.”

  “How did she find out?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I’m assuming someone told her.”

  “Yes,” Hope said, “he was there.”

  “And the two of you spoke?”

  “A little,” she said. Until last week, she couldn’t have imagined keeping the marriage proposal secret from her dad, but in the close, muggy air of that September evening, she couldn’t form the words. Instead she said, “We’re going to have dinner tomorrow night.”

  He looked over at his daughter, his soft eyes trying to read her. “I hope it goes well,” he said. “Whatever that means to you.”

  “Me too.”

  “He has some explaining to do, if you ask me.”

  “I know,” she answered. Inside, she heard the grandfather clock chime. Earlier in the day, she had taken a dusty atlas down from the shelf at home and calculated the time difference with Zimbabwe. Counting forward, she figured out that it was now the middle of the night there. She assumed that Tru was in Bulawayo with Andrew, and wondered what they had planned when they woke for the day. Would he take Andrew into the bush to see the animals, or would they kick a ball back and forth, or simply go for a walk? She wondered whether Tru was still thinking about her, in the same way she couldn’t stop thinking about him. In the silence, the words from his letter tried to force their way to the surface.

  She knew her dad was waiting for her to speak. In the past, whenever she’d had problems or concerns, she’d gone to him. He had a way of listening that always comforted her. Naturally empathetic, he seldom offered advice. He would instead ask what she thought she should do, silently encouraging her to trust her own instincts and judgment.

  But now, after reading what Tru had written, she couldn’t help thinking that she’d made a terrible mistake. As she sat beside her father, her final morning with Tru began to replay in slow motion. She remembered the way Tru had looked when he’d stepped onto the deck, the feel of his hand in hers as they strolled down the beach. She recalled his stricken expression when she’d told him of Josh’s proposal.

  Those weren’t the most piercing memories, however. Instead, she thought about the way he’d begged her to come with him to Zimbabwe; she saw him bent over double as she made that final turn, away from a possible life together.

  She knew she could change things. It wasn’t too late. She could book a flight to Zimbabwe tomorrow and go to him; she’d say that she knew now that the two of them were destined to grow old together. They could make love in a foreign locale, and she would become someone new, whose life she had only fantasized about.

  She wanted to say those things to her dad. She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted him to say that her happiness was all that mattered to him, but before she could speak, she felt a lick of breeze, and all at once, she pictured Tru sitting beside her at Kindred Spirit, the wind ruffling his thick hair.

  She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?

  Hadn’t she?

  The crickets continued to sing, the night settling heavily, with an almost suffocating weight. Moonlight threaded the branches of the trees. On the street, a car passed by, the windows down and radio playing. She remembered the jazz music on the radio when Tru had held her
in the kitchen.

  “I forgot to ask you,” her dad finally said, “and I know it was storming most of the week. But did you ever make it to Kindred Spirit?”

  At his words, the dam suddenly burst and Hope choked out a cry, which quickly gave way to sobbing.

  “What did I say?” he asked in a panic, but she could barely hear him. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, sweetheart…”

  She shook her head, unable to answer. In a haze, she felt her father put a hand on her knee. Even without opening her eyes, she knew he was staring at her with alarm and concern. But all she could think about was Tru, and there was nothing she could do to stop the tears.

  PART II

  Sands in the Hourglass

  October 2014

  Memories are a doorway to the past, and the more one treasures the memories, the wider the door will open. That’s what Hope’s father used to say, anyway, and like many of the things he’d told her, the passage of time seemed to amplify its wisdom.

  But then again, time had a way of changing everything, she thought. As she reflected on her life, it seemed impossible to believe that nearly a quarter century had passed since those days at Sunset Beach. So much had happened since then and she often felt as though she’d become an entirely different person than she once had been.

  Now, she was alone. It was early evening, with a hint of winter evident in the brisk air, and she sat on the back porch of her home in Raleigh, North Carolina. Moonlight was casting an eerie glow across the lawn and silvering the leaves that stirred in the breeze. The rustling sound made it seem as though voices of the past were calling to her, as they often did these days. She thought about her children, and as she moved the rocker slowly back and forth, the memories tumbled forth in a kaleidoscope of images. In the darkness, she recalled the awe she’d felt when holding each of them in the hospital; she smiled at the sight of them running naked down the hallway after taking their baths as toddlers. She thought about their gap-toothed smiles after their baby teeth fell out, and relived the mixture of pride and worry she’d experienced as they’d struggled through their teenage years. They were good kids. Great kids. To her surprise, she realized that she could even recall Josh with a fondness that had once seemed impossible. They’d divorced eight years ago, but at sixty, Hope liked to believe that she’d reached the point where forgiveness came easily.

  Jacob had dropped by on Friday night, and Rachel had brought over bagels on Sunday morning. Neither of the kids had expressed any curiosity about Hope’s announcement that she would be renting a cottage at the coast again, just as she’d done the year before. Their lack of interest wasn’t unusual. Like so many young people, they were caught up in their own lives. Rachel had graduated in May, Jacob the year before that, and both had been able to find jobs even before they’d received their diplomas. Jacob sold ads at a local radio station while Rachel worked for an internet marketing firm. They had their own apartments and paid their own bills, which Hope knew was something of a rarity these days. Most of their friends had moved back in with their parents after they’d finished college, and privately, Hope considered her kids’ independence even more noteworthy than their graduations.

  Even before packing her suitcase earlier that day, Hope had had her hair done. Since her retirement two years ago, she’d been visiting an upscale place near some high-end department stores. It was her one splurge these days. She’d come to know some of the women with the same regular schedule, and she’d sat in the chair, listening as the talk at the salon ran from husbands to kids to the vacations they’d taken over the summer. The easy conversation was a balm to Hope, and while there, she’d found her thoughts drifting to her parents.

  They had been gone for a long time now. Her father had passed away from ALS eighteen years earlier; her mom had survived four sad years more. She still missed them, but the pain of their loss had faded over the years into something more manageable, a dull ache that occurred only when she was feeling particularly blue.

  When her hair was done, Hope had left the salon, noting the BMWs and Mercedes and the women exiting the department store loaded with bulging bags. She wondered whether their purchases had actually been necessary or whether shopping was an addiction of sorts, the pull from the shelf offering a momentary respite from anxiety or depression. There’d been a time in her life when Hope had occasionally shopped for the same reasons, but those days were long behind her, and she couldn’t help but think that the world had changed in recent decades. People seemed more materialistic, more focused on keeping up with the Joneses, but Hope had learned that a meaningful life was seldom about such things. It was about experiences and relationships; it was about health and family and loving someone who loved you in return. She’d done her best to instill these notions in her kids, but who really knew whether she’d succeeded?

  These days, answers eluded her. Lately, she’d found herself asking why about many things, and while there were people who claimed to have all the answers—daytime television shows were replete with such experts—Hope was rarely persuaded. If there was one question she could have answered by any of them, it was simply this: Why does love always seem to require sacrifice?

  She didn’t know. What she did know was that she’d observed it in her marriage, as a parent, and as the grown child of a father who’d been condemned to slowly waste away. But as much as she’d pondered the question, she still couldn’t put her finger on the reason. Was sacrifice a necessary component of love? Were the words actually synonyms? Was the former proof of the latter, and vice versa? She didn’t want to think that love had an intrinsic cost—that it required disappointment, or pain, or angst—but there were times when she couldn’t help it.

  Despite the unforeseen events of her life, Hope wasn’t unhappy. She understood that life wasn’t easy for anyone, and she felt satisfied that she’d done the best she could. And yet, like everyone, she had regrets, and in the past couple of years, she’d revisited them more frequently. They would crop up unexpectedly, and often at the strangest of times: while she was putting cash into the church basket, for instance, or sweeping up some sugar that had spilled on the floor. When that happened, she would find herself recalling things she wished she could change, arguments that should have been avoided, words of forgiveness that had been left unspoken. Part of her wished she could turn back the clock and make different decisions, but when she was honest with herself, she questioned what she really could have changed. Mistakes were inevitable, and she’d concluded that regrets could impart important lessons in life, if one was willing to learn from them. And in that sense, she realized that her father had been only half-correct about memories. They weren’t, after all, only doorways to the past. She wanted to believe that they could also be doorways to a new and different kind of future.

  * * *

  Hope shivered as a chilly gust swept through the back porch, and she knew it was time to head inside.

  She’d lived in this house for more than two decades. She and Josh had purchased it shortly after they’d taken their vows, and as she breathed in the familiar surroundings, she thought again how much she’d always adored the place. It was Georgian in style, with large columns out front and wainscoting in most of the rooms on the main floor. Nonetheless, it was probably time to sell it. It was too much, too large for her, and trying to keep all the rooms dusted felt Sisyphean. The stairs, too, were becoming a challenge, but when she’d mentioned the idea of selling, Jacob and Rachel had balked at relinquishing their childhood home.

  Whether she sold it or not, it needed work. The hardwood floors were scuffed and scraped; in the dining room, the wallpaper had faded and needed to be replaced. The kitchen and bathrooms were still functional, but definitely outdated and in need of remodeling. There was so much to do; she wondered when, or even if, she’d be up to it.

  She moved through the house, turning off lights. Some of the switches on the lamps were notoriously hard to turn, and it took longer than she expected.

  He
r suitcase stood near the front door, next to the wooden box she’d retrieved from the attic. The sight of them made her think about Tru, but then again, she’d never really stopped thinking about him. He would be sixty-six now. She wondered whether he’d retired from guiding, or still lived in Zimbabwe; perhaps he had moved to Europe or Australia or someplace even more exotic. She speculated about whether he lived near Andrew, and whether he’d become a grandfather in the years they’d been apart. She wondered if he’d married again, whom he had dated, or even if he remembered her at all. Then again, was he even still alive? She liked to think she would have instinctively known if he was gone from this world—that they were somehow linked—but she admitted that might be wishful thinking. Mostly though, she questioned whether the final words in his letter could possibly be true—whether, for them, anything would always be possible.

  In the bedroom, she put on the pajamas that Rachel had bought for her last Christmas. They were cozy and warm, exactly what Hope wanted. She slipped into bed and adjusted the covers, hoping for the sleep that so often eluded her these days.

  Last year at the beach, she’d lain awake thinking about Tru. She’d willed him to come back to her, reliving the days they’d spent together with vivid intensity. She remembered their encounter on the beach and the coffee they’d shared that very first morning; she replayed for the hundredth time their dinner at Clancy’s and their stroll back to the cottage. She felt his gaze on her as they sipped wine on the porch, and the sound of his voice as he read the letter on the bench at Kindred Spirit. More than anything, she recalled the tender and sensual way they’d made love; the intensity of his expression, the words he’d whispered to her.